


Human Subjects Research

by StHoltzmann



Series: New Toys [1]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: "strictly scientific" relationship, Dubious Science, Eventual Smut, F/F, For Science!, LGBTQ Female Character, My First Smut, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Reader-Insert, Scientist!Reader, Sex Toys, Sexy sexy paperwork, This is just the warm-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StHoltzmann/pseuds/StHoltzmann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volunteering for a research study is pretty normal for you. The subject matter of this one, though, is rather unusual. And the lead--well, only--investigator, Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, is HIGHLY unusual. </p><p>But you like it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Subjects Research

**Author's Note:**

> Language note: I'll be using the word "queer" in this note and throughout, since I use it for myself and also find it to be conveniently broad.
> 
> This is the low-key opening to what I hope will be a series of at least three stories. The aim is smut, but since I love character and relationship development, it may take us a little while to get there. Disclaimer: I'm still pretty new to writing fanfic. I've never really written smutty fic. And I've never written second-person reader-insert before. I'm pretty sure I'm doing that wrong; I've given "you" too many details. But maybe think of it this way: This story takes place in a universe next door to ours. In this universe, you're a queer woman, you're a science postdoc, the Ghostbusters exist, and (most importantly!) Jillian Holtzmann is real.

A few months into your postdoc position you’ve found that your stipend doesn’t go as far in NYC as you’d thought it would. In fact, more than once, a couple of paid research studies have been the only way you’ve managed to make the rent. You know your campus very well by now—psychology, sociology, psychiatry, public health, you name it—not just your own Applied Physics and Applied Mathematics department. But this month…no studies that you're eligible for. That may end up meaning oatmeal two meals a day, and the free food alerts for post-reception looting, and maybe still no rent. You need to do something. 

You sigh and switch from your depressing bank app to Craigslist. Skeevy…skeevy…scam…skeevy scam…not qualified, focus group—save that one!, not qualified, ske—hmm, well, wait a second. This listing reads: _MAD SCIENCE - Queer woman interested in the frontiers of science? Compensated study. Text Dr. H. for eligibility screening. Oh, yeah, I forgot; don’t worry, I’m queer too! And this is not what it sounds like! Probably. Depending on what you think it sounds like._

You’re intrigued despite yourself. What a weird little ad. You fire off a text and forget about it. Time to search your tiny apartment for any forgotten granola bars or chocolate.

A couple of hours later, you get a text back. You answer a few questions, and then the mysterious person on the other end invites you to come over and talk about her research in person. The address is a weird location—pretty far out, looks like a rundown warehouse area when you check it out on Google Maps. But you have a good feeling about it, and you set out into the late afternoon sun.

It’s a little hard to locate the door, as though the owner doesn't particularly want to be found. You knock on the steel and hope someone can hear you. After a moment, you hear “Hang on! Gotta…stabilize…” The voice trails off and you wait. It’s been just long enough for you to wonder if you ought to knock again when the door is flung open. “Come in, shut the door, don’t want the PM2.5 getting into the equipment.”

That makes no sense, but you step in automatically. You're running on autopilot: you didn’t recognize the voice, but you absolutely recognize the rest of her. Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. “Dr. Hol—“

“Whoa, cover blown! Okay, Sherlock, let me fast-forward. Here.” Dr. Holtzmann pushes a few things off of a workbench without looking at them and waves you over. She thrusts a clipboard with a stack of papers into your hands and then takes a few steps away. You start to look over the documents, but can’t help peeking up at Dr. Holtzmann. You were too busy with your dissertation to catch much of the coverage when the whole vortex thing happened, but you definitely noticed her. You even read a few of her brilliant and…uh…idiosyncratic papers, which you could just barely justify as relevant to your research—and you are not surprised that she’s queer, even given what little you’ve seen of her. Though now that you think of it, the incongruous double entendres sprinkled through her papers were also a pretty big hint. 

Now here she is, back to you, fidgeting with a wall of meters. Her hair is haphazardly pinned up in the back and roaming wild on top. She appears to be wearing two pairs of safety glasses, as though she had forgotten that she had one pair already perched on top of her head. She’s wearing a grey t-shirt (Reading Rainbow, you think it was) with the arms and neck cut out, and a tweed vest, and wine-colored corduroy slacks, and a scarf with a schematic of the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project on it. You recognize it, because you gave your ex a bowtie from the same company two years ago.

That triggers an unpleasant thought. Oh god! What if Holtzmann recognizes you? A year ago, a colleague told you that Dr. Holtzmann had been in your audience at a public lecture you’d given. You didn’t see her, though, and you never really believed that your colleague had seen her (why would _she_ go to _your_ talk?). But if your colleague was right, and Dr. Holtzmann remembers you, you’re sure you won’t be eligible for the study.

Deep breaths. You’ll just have to see what happens.

Dr. Holtzmann is much smaller than you’d expected. She’d exuded wild, uncontainable energy in the videos you saw, giving you the impression of a taller person. You briefly imagine picking her up, and—uh. Time to actually read the documents. (Is she nervous? Her shoulders look tight. Meanwhile, you’re so nervous that you’re wondering if you brought your inhaler with you.)

Right. The documents. The first couple of pages are a kind of two-way NDA/human subject research consent form hybrid. Neither of you will discuss anything from tonight, even if you decide not to be a research subject. She (well, it says “the researcher”) won’t ask your name or any personal details, and you will use a pseudonym. The document itself is already signed by Dr. Holtzmann, but if you sign it, you’ll seal it in the provided envelope yourself. You raise your eyebrows, shrug, and pull a pen out of your messenger bag. The next page is less formal. Much less formal. It’s handwritten and reads: 

_SOOOOO…this is literally technology-assisted human sexual gratification device (OKAY, “sex toy”) research. Usually I’m my own test subject, but for this I need a volunteer. I was gonna build a robot, but let’s be real, it’s not the same thing. Safety? No unsafe levels of radiation, I promise. And you can say “stop” any time. Rules? No unnecessary touching on my part. Strictly science! Time commitment? Variable. A couple hours here and there. I’ll just text you & see if you’re free. If you're not up for this, NO PROBLEM, just put this down and leave. And there’s a Metro card taped to the back of the door for your time._

Well, that was unexpected—to the extent that the radiation bit is the least disconcerting part. Trying to calm your thoughts, you look around for a moment. The formerly open warehouse space is filled with a pretty haphazard collection of equipment, even more disorganized than the lab you share. You recognize some extremely cutting edge devices, and some completely obsolete devices, and a lot of things that probably literally came from a junk pile. (And is that a motorcycle engine?) There are worklights and benches here and there. Anywhere else, you’d think several people were sharing project space, but you can tell it’s all just Dr. Holtzmann. 

Way in the back, you can make out what looks like a futon, an antique wooden wardrobe, mismatched bookshelves filled with books and vintage science equipment (is that an armillary sphere?), and a folding table with a double electric burner and a teakettle set on it. This living area is underneath a set of stairs up to what looks like a loft with more research equipment. You can’t make out most of it, but you can see the blinking of green and orange lights. Both downstairs and up, there are a few pod-like rooms set into the warehouse space—probably for particularly noisy or dangerous research, you guess. A couple of them have nuclear radiation hazard stickers on them, but then again, so does the clipboard you’re holding. (You decide not to think about this too much.) 

You realize that the equipment in sight is mostly either larger pieces or tools for making larger pieces. Could that mean the “devices” Holtzmann wants to test…are larger too, not little handheld vibrators you’d pick up at Babeland? Your spine tingles as your imagination shifts into overdrive.

You’ve apparently been quiet for too long, because Dr. Holtzmann turns around and arches an eyebrow at you. “You sure like to take your time.” She winks, and then smacks her forehead with her gloved palm. “Sorry, reflex. I don’t want to make this weird.” (Make it weird? You wonder just how high the bar for “weird” is around here. But you like weird. Weird is good.) Holtzmann makes a face. “Uh…what did Patty tell me to tell people?” She hmms and then holds up a finger. “Aha! ’Please tell me if I forget and say or do something that offends you or makes you uncomfortable,’” she recites.

“It’s fine. I’m not easy to offend. And my weirdness tolerance is higher than you’d think.” You attempt a confident smile.

She gestures at the paper. “You just going to leave me hanging?”

“Oh.” Time to make a decision. Well, spending time with Dr. Holtzmann would obviously be a win, even if you can’t really get to know her under the circumstances. And the compensation rate is pretty good. She must be doing consulting on the side--something you should probably look into yourself. And it’s not like you haven’t done some “interesting” studies before. There was that time you participated in a female arousal and orgasm study for the sex and gender people in the public health department. That involved watching a wide variety of porn, some of which you still wish you could unsee, and masturbating in an MRI scanner—which is a lot like putting on a helmet and sticking your head inside a washing machine filled with boulders. You expect you’ll probably have less trouble getting yourself in the mood here; those researchers were not exactly in Holtzmann’s league. In more ways than one.

On the other hand, you don’t have to do this. There may be more focus groups out there to do, and you can always call your sister for an emergency loan if you have to. 

But as the saying goes, faint heart never won fair lady. 

“I’m game,” you say, signing the second set of documents, shoving them in the other envelope and sealing it before you lose your nerve. “Call me Q." It's not a Star Trek reference; it's just the first thing that pops into your head.

Holtzmann pumps her fist and pries open a decal-festooned laptop. You want to take her pleased face and dimpled grin personally, but everyone knows how hard it can be to get test subjects. It’s definitely purely professional glee. Probably.

"Call me Holtzmann." She takes down the Craigslist ad as you watch.

"How many other subjects—“ you start to ask.

“Only youuu,” Holtzmann sings. “For now.” She starts fishing around in the base of a partially dismantled vibrational magnetometer, which is inexplicably being used to hold papers.

Hmm, “for now?” You resolve to be the best research subject ever, so she doesn't need anyone else. To…save her time, make the research more efficient. Y’know.

Holtzmann triumphantly pulls out a stack of papers and waves it at you. God, if you had one tenth of her enthusiasm, you wouldn't know what the words "imposter syndrome" even meant. Maybe some of it will rub off on you.

"Survey," she says. "Fill it out before you go, accelerate the timetable.”

You wouldn’t have guessed that Holtzmann was so into paperwork. Or maybe she’s getting it all over with in one go. ”No problem," you say. You gnaw on your pen and look it over. There are a lot of questions. Intimate questions, followed by comfort ratings. You get the idea that Holtzmann doesn't want to do anything that you wouldn't be okay with. From your reading of her research, you hadn’t gotten the impression that she was a particularly restrained researcher. But maybe it depends on the project.

Hmmm, restrained...You wrestle your brain back into professionalism (it's hard, given the questions) and start checking off answers.

Holtzmann wanders around for a bit; then her head jerks up and she takes the stairs three at a time. Guess she forgot something was running up there, a feeling that you unfortunately are familiar with.

There's a muffled "whump" upstairs, and you hear a door open. Bluish smoke drifts out. The door closes again and fans overhead turn on, so presumably everything’s okay. You shrug—you don’t like being interrupted while you work, and presumably Holtzmann doesn’t either—and get back to the questions.

About twenty minutes later, Holtzmann comes back down the stairs. She putters around in the back and you catch an odd, chocolatey scent that softens the metal tang of the air in the warehouse. Holtzmann heads in your direction, with a voltage meter tucked under her chin, wires tucked under her arms, an ancient-looking “Engineers Do It Better“ mug in one hand, and a can of chocolate Hob Nobs in the other hand. She starts when she sees you, as though she'd forgotten you were there. She breaks eye contact, awkwardly puts everything down on a flat drafting table several meters away from you, and goes back the way she came. Huh. Well, you’re getting into the final stretch of the questions, so back to it.

It's Holtzmann's turn to startle you. She thrusts a mug under your nose and says, "Coffee, cream, and Ovaltine." It's not a question. She puts it down next you and puts a cookie on top.

The drink tastes better than you'd expected. By the time you finish it, you're done. You hand the papers to Holtzmann and she tosses a soldering iron (which you hope is off) onto a shelf without looking. She flips through the survey and then rubs her hands together. "Sweet. Okay, bye! Take the thingie on the door."

Metro card in hand, you leave her lab. Home? Whatever. The sun is setting and you have a feeling that Holtzmann is going to be up all night with your data. The thought makes you smile, for no real reason. Time to go home and distract yourself with the driest journal articles that you can dig up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Holtzmann is a real challenge to write for. She has relatively few lines in the film overall, and when she does speak, she's not at all verbose. I, on the other hand, am extremely verbose by nature. I hope we get to learn more about her (canonically) someday, but in the meantime, I'll be trying to get better at writing her. 
> 
> The song referenced in the story is "Fembot" by Robyn. We know Holtzy likes her 80s music, but my headcanon is that she's eclectic and gets attached to any song that clicks with her. And when she briefly sings "Only You," that's from the famous song by the Platters.
> 
> P. S. I'm perversely impressed by how I sat down to write smut and wound up with 2300 words of, like, reading and filling out forms. Amazing.
> 
> P. P. S: Tumblr user weblectricity, through an entertaining coincidence, posted [their idea of what a book by Holtzmann would look like](http://weblectricity.tumblr.com/post/149337287411/because-you-know-holtz-would-write-a-book-just-to). I'm pleased to report that the table of contents includes LOTS of incongruous double entendres!
> 
> P. P. P. S: I'm going to change this from chapters to a series--I didn't realize how it worked before. Every installment is going to have different...um...features, so they need individual tags. Hope I don't break anything.


End file.
